But lately he’d thought of his new life in New York City—and his new business—as essential next steps.He’d wanted to figure out who he was as a forty-nine-year-old single man in the world.He wanted to imagine what he’d missed out on.The fact that he was already back in Paris bothered him.It felt like taking several steps backward.
The beautiful thing about Paris was that if anyone recognized him as Grayson Harris, nobody cared to take a photograph.Nobody cornered him and asked him about his private flight.Parisians and French people in general were more environmentally conscious than typical Americans.Still, they weren’t the type of people to accost you on the street, not even if they recognized you.For this, Grayson was grateful.
He stopped at a bakery near Notre-Dame for a baguette sandwich filled with ham and butter (a delicacy in France that he couldn’t find anywhere else, it seemed), and ate it next to the river, watching the water sludge past.“Where are you, Camille?”he asked the water, hoping that his inner monologue would find her, somehow.
On cue, his phone began to ring.But it was Calvin back in Manhattan, not Camille here in Paris.
It was the first time Grayson had heard from his Water Works colleagues since the photo had dropped.Even Alex hadn’t texted to say he was sorry that he’d been spotted, that his “plan” had failed.
Grayson guessed that they were in crisis mode, trying to save the company before it went belly-up.He imagined them in the conference room, shivery from too much coffee, their eyes rimmed red.
He took a deep breath and answered the call.
“Hey, man,” Calvin said, his voice fake-nice.“I have Alex and Bobby on the line as well.Heard you’re in Paris?”
Grayson stared at his shining shoes and willed himself to hang up the phone.“I have a bit of a family emergency,” he said.“Had to get over here as soon as I could.Hence the flight.”
“Man, I’m sorry to hear that,” Calvin said.“I wish you had told us.So we could have game planned how to get you over there.”
Grayson would never send Alex down the river.He would never say that he’d trusted Alex more than the others, either.So he said, “It all happened so quickly.I wasn’t sure what to do.”
“Right.We get that,” Calvin said.“But it’s obviously put the company in a precarious position.I don’t know how online you’ve been since you got over there.But there have been think pieces.TikToks.Instagram posts.And on and on.People are really unpacking your decision to fly private.Again, we can’t blame you for doing that.But you have to understand how it looks.”
A dull, thudding headache entered the back of Grayson’s skull.He put the rest of his sandwich back into its paper bag and remained quiet.A pigeon cooed not far from him and bobbed along, looking at him with something like pity.
“We’re thinking about the funds we allocated for this commercial,” Calvin continued.
“The one with Will and Ella,” Grayson clarified.
“Right.We were thinking we really need to pivot on this one,” Calvin said.“I mean, we need to speak to the younger audience.The audience who’s especially angry about your little flight.We need to get on their level.”
“As I said, I need this commercial to be with Will and Ella’s music,” Grayson said.But even he could hear how pathetic he sounded and how unwilling he was to release his silly sentiments.
“There’s no reason we can’t discuss that down the line,” Calvin said.“But using more contemporary music could solve a few problems for us right now.And we were thinking about getting an influencer on the commercial as well.Someone equally as excited about environmental changes as you.I don’t know how often you’re on socials, but there are influencers with literally millions of followers who will help us promote our brand.”
“If they fly privately, they never let their followers see it,” Bobby said, trying to tease him.“Unless, of course, flying privately is a part of their brand!”
Calvin laughed falsely.“Yeah.Right.We won’t be doing that again, will we?”
Grayson bent his head, exhausted by the performative nature of the current internet.He wanted to be a good person; he wanted to save the world; he wanted to be a loving father; he wanted to support the art and music he’d always loved.He wanted too much, apparently.
“I’m not sold on the whole influencer thing,” Grayson said sternly, speaking down to the rushing Seine below his feet.“We’re a serious company doing serious work.”He reminded himself of the plans Calvin, Alex, Bobby, and Grayson had written on a sheet of paper early on: a 65 percent reduction in plastic in the water within five years, a 30 percent reduction in cruise ships, and so on.He was fixated on his goals and hated that this useless flight to Paris had diminished them.
“We’re going to crunch the numbers for you,” Calvin said.“We’ll show you how successful your message will be with an influencer and without.We’ll show you how we anticipate the fallout from your private plane trip.We’ll send those numbers over to you in an hour or two.You can form your own opinion after that.Alright, Grayson?”His tone reminded Grayson of an adult talking to a teenager who couldn’t get something through his head.
Grayson saw there was no arguing with his colleagues, not now, so he thanked them, got off the phone, and got up.His head swam.It was getting cold and cloudy and shadowy, so he walked back to his apartment, where he took a long, hot shower and sat on the sofa, swiping through various social media channels and hating the experience down to his bones.
But it was then that he spotted Camille!
She sat in a wine bar in Montmartre, not far from the Sacre-Coeur.She looked sleek and sophisticated and very sad, her blond hair in a tight bob around her head, and her shoulders too thin.She held up a glass of wine and smiled very sadly at the camera.She’d posted the photograph with the caption: Who needs a private flight when we have the world at our feet?Grayson blinked at it, not entirely sure what it meant.But what was clear was that it was a signal to him, proof that she knew he was here to find her.
She was in Montmartre, at the northern edge of the city, waiting for him.
And it was then that a memory niggled through the back of his mind.Years ago, when his mother had died, she’d had a little apartment in Montmartre, a place she’d called her “love nest,” although nobody had really known what that meant.Nobody had asked either.Grayson had been overwhelmed with the tasks of dealing with his mother’s death, her belongings, her properties, her journals, and the memories she’d left behind.Was it possible that Camille had taken the Montmartre apartment?Was it possible that that had slipped Grayson’s mind?
Exhausted, Grayson rubbed his eyes, got up from the sofa, dressed in a pair of thick slacks, a large Norwegian sweater, and his warmest coat.He would take the metro up to Montmartre.He would do whatever he could to uphold his green initiative.
Beneath the city, the train bolted under the river, and his ears were stopped up.Around him were Parisians reading newspapers and books; listening to music on big, bulky headphones; and looking at the ground or at one another.Grayson’s eyes filled with tears.The super-rich missed out on this—the closeness with strangers and the proof that we were all on this planet together, trying to get by.
